Where there's smoke
by Shaposhit
Summary: Prussia and Russia make an "agreement" at the Congress of Vienna in 1815, but the other nations aren't happy about it. Prrussia - it's grreat! Russocentric.


**Hi guys! This starts off pretty serious but sort of...degenerates...along the way. It is a [completely accurate] account of the Polish-Saxon question at the Congress of Vienna of 1815. Basically, it started because I was thinking "Prrussia. It's grreat!"**

**Also, the AP European History exam is May 6th. Happy studying!**

The haze curls around him, casting a widow's veil over his eyes and making it hard to breathe. He wonders if it's darkened his hair, but there is thankfully no mirror in the mahogany-paneled room where they are gathered. Everything is gilded here, but it's still not as nice as home. He doesn't like this smoke - it makes it hard to gague the eyes of his opponents, a game which is already too difficult.

_Could you put out the cigar? _He wants to make the request. He can't. Will it be polite enough? Too acquiescent? He doesn't know how to talk to these people, how to smile and bow, and say pretty words that mean something else. He can't read consequences in a _please _and an _I propose _like the men who do this like they've been doing it since the days they were born.

They have, he supposes, but he is something else. He doesn't speak this language. Diplomacy in Russia is an order, a couple coins, and the bulge of a knife beneath his shirt.

What's worse, not even the most powerful nation would ask Austria to cease his smoking, not here in the land of coffee and music and _more cultured than thou. _Austria is king here - most literally - and the guests will have to tolerate his habits. It's not like he's being rude, either - probably nobody else even cares that they can't see their opponents' eyes, but Russia needs everything ice-clear to deal with Mr. Culture and Conquer. He's taking his coffee with a teaspoon of cream tonight, ignoring the "just-in-case" flask of vodka under his coat. Suddenly, he remembers that he's brought it, and has to grab his own twitching fingers to stop himself from giving in. If only they were at his home, where he'd be pouring everybody drinks and smiling graciously and marking out territories on the map.

Hosting is a pain, but also coveted. Nobody asked Russia to host, and he's certain he'll never be able to, not even after beating back that bastard France when no one else could.

No one else stopped France - not Spain, not Italy, hell, not even Prussia.

And yet Russia's sitting here, in the land France barrelled through like he was skipping through a meadow of dasies, listening to Austria philosophize and wax eloquent and shape Europe as he pleases. What's more, Russia's being benevolent to grace the others with his presence today, and this is how they greet him? With a room full of smoke and the chipped coffee cup that Austria wouldn't dare offer to anybody else?

He's tired of being the least important.

He's tired of not being "part of the gang".

Hasn't he proved himself a true Westerner? He'd learned French and English, met Voltaire, modernized education, military, and the Church. Hell, he'd even shaved his traditional beard to look more European. Well. Maybe he'd cried a little afterwards, but he'd done it. He'd done his best to scrub the backwards out of Russia - make the institutions and even the men's faces look like France and England wanted them to.

Oh, but here he was, listening to Austria's dry, needling voice carve out a new Europe with no room for Russia, eating a chocolate-raspberry torte that he could barely taste through the smell of cigar. Raspberries were a luxury for him - they didn't grow in the far North - so at home he shared them, bite for bite, with Alexander. Here was a kingdom where bounty grew on trees and bushes and flowerboxes; a place where any lesser nobleman (perhaps even a wealthy commoner!) could eat all the raspberries he wanted, and the king could have them by the bucketful. And they, precious ruby fruit, were wasted by the smoke.

Another red, glistening object catches his attention, and Russia's gaze shifts up from his intertwined, fidgeting hands to meet Prussia's. The other sports his customary, mocking smirk. Russia resists the urge to spit at him.

"Prussia," Austria admonishes, and their eye contact breaks. Prussia emits a sort of low-pitched growl of annoyance, and Russia returns to playing with his scarf. "Do you agree?"

"With what?"

"Haven't you been _listening, _boar? This territory-" a long pianist's finger rests upon a splotch of land on the map "- next to the Kingdom of the Netherlands - do you want it?"

"Austria, old friend, how long have you known me? I don't care much for that Netherlands fellow, but doesn't he live with his sister? She's rather pleasing to the eye." Prussia says in a mock-jovial voice, his eyes dancing like little fires in the darkened room. "Anyhow, haven't I _always _wanted territory?

It gets the desired result. Austria's face darkens, his delicate mouth twisting into a grimace. He mutters something spiteful, which Russia cannot quite hear, but it sounds like, "Silesia."

"How now, friend?" Prussia continues cheerfully, as though blind but for his eyes, which bear fiercely into Austria. Russia glances involuntarily at the recipient, half-expecting to see a singed scar on his face from the sheer ferocity of the other's glare. "We're practically brothers, man, so let us not fight."

And then the strangest thing happens. Russia, who had been feeling rather left out of the Germanic argument, finds himself on the recieving end of another Prussian glare. They are fiery, fiery eyes, and suddenly Russia feels naked in his thick woolen coat. Prussia speaks again, with the polite yet authoritative tone all the diplomats have had to cultivate. "What do you think, Russia? Oughtn't neighbors get along?"

Russia takes only a second to collect his wits. Perhaps, he muses, he's getting the hang of this after all. "Why, yes, it's rather vital," he says with his sweetest voice, thinking of how well he treats his little collection, his darling Finland the the precocious, rebellious Poland-Lithuania. He gets along with them so well, sometimes he even takes them out to dinner without the handcuffs. If only they did not try to escape quite so often...

An hour and two cups of sweet Viennese coffee later, Austria's eyelids begin to droop, and he says, "Break!", tinged with the frustration that comes with exhaustion. Russia glances around the table, and thinks perhaps the only nation more tired than Austria is France, with the bags under his eyes and the nervous foot-twitching. Empires are tiring after all; especially failed ones, but France has good luck as far as luck goes. _If it was me they were restricting instead of France, _Russia thinks bitterly, _they wouldn't be nearly so nice._

-COV-

"Oughtn't neighbors get along?"

Russia very nearly jumps out of his pants. He'd been leaning against the chilly stone wall, letting the cold seep back into his bones after hours of drinking hot drink after hot drink and sitting next to the furnace. Heat makes him think funny, clouds his judgement. In his ice-cooled reflections, he'd realized that perhaps the congress wasn't going quite as badly as it could have been - after all, he was participating. Austria, England, and Prussia were being pretty thankful towards him, calling Alexander the "savior of Europe", even if they weren't giving him any territory.

They were too scared of his power, his size...no Orthodox, Russian brute would get territory as long as the Germans were presiding.

"Well? You said it yourself." Prussia has appeared out of nowhere, leaning casually against the wall in a fancy blue coat that looks far too thin for the weather.

"Yes, I suppose I did..." Russia replies slowly, taken aback. "Why...?"

Prussia cannot be contained. He takes a step forward in his tall white boots, grinning unreadably, and says out of the blue, "So how's your third of Poland doing?"

Russia stiffens. He knows the other is good at this - pushing the wrong buttons - but still cannot stop his hackles from raising. Everybody knows Russia isn't happy sharing anything, especially not with Germans, especially not the arm of his empire that extends towards the heart of "real" Europe. Why is Prussia doing this? Russia closes his eyes against the wind, the cold, the horrid and intricate diplomacy.

_This is not how people talk, with words that say everything except what they mean. This is how snakes talk,_ he thinks.

His eyelids shoot up again when he feels a change in pressure about his head, a foreign texture against the skin of his throat. It takes him a long moment to recognize shapes and wavelengths, to watch them form into Prussia's curious face, and realize that the other has slipped a hand beneath his scarf. Prussia's fingers rest weightily on his throat, and Russia shivers.

One horrible thought leaps to the front of his mind, and Russia can't help but put it to voice, like a child with a question that simply can't wait, "Are...are you going to hurt me?"

"Look," Prussia says in a fatherly tone. "I ain't here to make small talk."

He is ready for the hand on his throat to tighten - he is going to be strangled, knocked off like some common scum, and disposed of in the Danube. Russia closes his eyes again, and prays that he won't cry or scream. He should have seen this coming. He should have brought bodyguards. Should have, should have, should have...he feels the brush of fabric against his cheek, and knows the scarf is gone. It was his armor, the embodiment of safety, and the last reminder of his childhood.

Hot breath envelops his cold-ruddied face, cheek brushes cheek, and Prussia's lips dance against his neck. The odd, conflicting sound of loud heartbeats set against the rustle of silk on wool fills his ears, and Russia reaches reflexively for his knife. His hand is stopped and clutched by the other. Russia draws in a sharp breath as Prussia whispers,

"You can have Poland. Don't tell Austria."

It is a long night of negotiations, and both are late for the meeting next morning. They enter one after another, with Russia's cheeks and Prussia's ears as red as sunset. Austria, absorbed in reading his agenda, doesn't notice.

But someone else does.

Russia is self-conscious and barely awake, though whether or not he's hungover as well is a fact that will rest with Gilbert and me. Still, he sees France's eyes darken like little blue skies obscured by clouds, and the man turns to whisper something into England's ear. France's stare refuses to break, and Russia feels a wave of cold spread from his hairline to the tips of his fingers, his lower body completely numb.

_I'm not scared of him, _Russia tells himself, presenting the others with his best emotionless smile. _What can poor, coddled, defeated France do to mighty Mother Russia?_

He tried to engage France in a silent battle of glares, but the other is busy trying to communicate silently with England via lip synching. England is apparently not getting the message, juding from his scowl and slow, dismissive head-shake. Then again, that could just be England. Russia doesn't know him that well - not like the Westerners do - so he can't judge his meaning from a twitch of massive eybrow like France can. The others...they grew up together. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

"Since the Dutch issue was settled in committee last night - " Austria begins, but he is cut off.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting, Austria," France breaks in, "but England and I have something we'd like to share with you -"

England gives the other an utterly befuddled look.

"- in private."

The other three soon file out, leaving an extremely awkward Russia and Prussia seated far, far away from each other at opposite ends of the great mahogany table.

"So," Prussia says, ignoring the atmosphere. Russia fidgets and tries not to make eye contact. He's sure his face is bright right, because all his mind can think of is memories of deals and payments, taking and relinquishing territory...Prussia had said, _I'll teach you diplomacy. _Then, Russia shudders to remember, glittering ruby eyes, and Prussia had not grinned so much as bared his teeth. They were pointed, and Russia can't help but raise his hand to his own neck, where he'd been joyfully annointed, not hours ago, with those vampiric teeth.

Prussia watches him, eyes narrowed slyly. Russia wishes somebody was smoking a noxious cigar today, if only so he wouldn't have to look at the other's face.

Somehow, Russia feels vulnerable around Prussia, even more than the other more-skilled diplomats.

With a click and the grating of wood on wood, the door opens. Austria steps inside, his dark eyes ablaze and mouth twisted with fury. Behind him are the much more subdued, haughty-looking France, and annoyed England.

"Ahem," he says in his dry little voice, which does not match his tensed shoulders and curled lip. "France has brought it to my attention that an agreement of an undisclosed nature has passed between my fellow diplomats, the Kingdom of Prussia and the Tsardom of Russia, at an unknown time between the adjourning of our previous meeting last night and the commencement of this very meeting taking place now."

"You have no proof!" Prussia spat, rising to his feet to make optical daggers at his fellow German.

"Actually," France said playfully, pushing Austria aside to address the two under fire. Russia was beginning to feel like a schoolboy accused of misbehavior. It did not become him. "The proof is on your shoulders."

"What?" Prussia and Russia exclaimed in unison.

"It has come to my attention," continued France, his tone a sarcastic echo of Austria's formality, "that the light blue shirt with white trim - and gold chain belt - you are wearing, Prussia, belongs to our dear Russian friend - or should I say, lover?"

"That's not -"

"_Furthermore_, I am certain of this because it is at least two sizes too large, and you, Prussia, have never bought light blue _anything _since Austria told you it clashes with your eyes in 1740."

"So I borrowed his clothes. Big fucking deal!" Prussia exclaimed, though his ears were as red as his eyes by this point.

"_Additionally, _I have observed that the embroidery on Russia's jacket is most definitely Prussian, as the use of bright colours and delicate stiching are far too Western for the Russian craftsmen with their small budgets and large fingers. Additonally, Prussia wore it one hundred and sixty-seven years, eight weeks, and forty-four days ago to a party I hosted at Versailles."

"He told me all of this, Prussia. If it is true..." Austria said tightly, choking the words out through a throat closed by betrayal. "...conspiring with Russia, giving away Poland, repeating outfits...!"

"Hey, Austria, dear ally!" Prussia exclaimed frantically, rushing across the table and grabbing Austria's shoulders as though he hoped to shake some sense into him. Austria merely shook his head. "All France has done is prove that we traded a couple old pieces of cloth! Come on, man - German Confederation forever! You believe me, don't you?"

"All the Frenchman is saying," Russia continued more mildly, in the same vein, "is that I've bought Prussia's jacket from him. Not Poland. There was no significant diplomatic agreement. All of this talk of various pieces of clothing is relatively unfounded anyway - he can' t prove that a certain shirt is mine or Prussia's."

"Actually, he can," England said flatly. "It's fashion. He's France."

"_In conclusion,_" France butted in with a thankful wink to England, "The room I'm currently inhabiting at the Altstadt is directly below Russia's. And I have ears."

That, as they say, was that. France, Austria, and England stopped the Polish-Saxon trade between Russia and Prussia from occuring, and the two have blamed each other for the outcome ever since.

**Compare and contrast French diplomat Talleyrand's success at stopping the Russo-Prussian agreement at the Congress of Vienna with the phrase "Dude, he totally cockblocked me!"**


End file.
